


Learn to Say Goodbye

by Sheepie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, And bad shit still happens, Bilbo goes on another adventure, Can't a hobbit get a break?, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I haven't decided yet, M/M, Rating May Change, Snarky Bilbo is Snarky, Thorin Lives, bilbo is not amused, fishmonger!Thorin, painful memories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepie/pseuds/Sheepie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo spent two years learning how to get over Thorin. Now the former king has returned--to sell fish down at the market--and Bilbo doesn't know what to do.</p><p>Alternatively,</p><p>Where Thorin is a fishmonger, Bilbo is very mad, and neither of them know how to communicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story is edited by Dhampir72. Thank you for the help!
> 
> This is dedicated to Mo.
> 
> Idea inspired by a prompt I can no longer find.

Bilbo woke with the sun in his eyes. He held a hand up to block out the light and stared up at the ceiling. Beyond his window, Bilbo could hear the robins singing. Today would be a good day, he told himself with no true conviction.

After two long years the pain of Thorin’s death still hadn’t abated. Bilbo’s sorrow was a second heartbeat, one that would carry on well after his heart had finally given out. The Battle of Five Armies had been won and Bilbo had been given more riches than he could imagine, but none of it mattered. Once he returned to Hobbiton, Bilbo had remained in bed for weeks, refusing to face the day.

How could he? Hobbits didn’t have _Ones_ , but Bilbo had truly believed that Thorin was his soulmate. He knew it was a ridiculous concept, but the first time Bilbo had seen Thorin standing in his doorway, it had been like a firecracker going off inside his heart. It had hurt. It had burned. It had lit a fire so bright inside him, that even after Thorin’s death, it continued to blaze.

Bilbo didn’t know when it happened, but somehow, between insults and running for their lives, he and Thorin had come together--with both body and soul. When the nights were cold, Bilbo closed his eyes and envisioned the feel of Thorin’s hands once more upon his body. Sometimes the memories were so strong, that when Bilbo finally woke from the reverie, he was startled to find his bed empty.

Those were sometimes the hardest moments; he could feel Thorin’s presence, but Bilbo knew it was only a memory.

It took time, but Bilbo found his way through the darkness, and while his life would never be complete, he had learned to live again.

He woke.

He ate breakfast.

He toiled in the garden, smoked his pipe, and read his books.

Bilbo did everything he used to before the quest to reclaim Erebor. Life continued, starting back where he had left it, as if the journey never happened.

Unchanged and constant.

Only, Bilbo had changed. He had grown, found his courage, and discovered a love he would now have to go on without.

There were moments in the day when he would stop what he was doing and reflect back on a memory. Some were small and insignificant, others grand and exuberant. In those moments, when the past collided with the present, Bilbo found himself struggling to breathe, lost in a dizzying waltz of time. Bilbo would then dig his hands into the dirt, hold tight to Middle-Earth, and remind himself that life didn’t stop with Thorin, even if his heart did.

Two years. Two years he had fought his way out of despair, and now he could finally say he had a miniscule shred of happiness again.

Life would never be the same. When he closed his eyes he would always be wishing that Thorin lay beside him, but he could at least say he looked forward to the morning. The small pleasures in life were now all he had, but they kept him going. If he kept reading, there would always be one more chapter to wake up for; if he kept gardening, there would always be vegetables to tend; and if he thought hard enough, there were some days he could say even seeing the sunrise was worth one more day. Thorin would have wanted one more daybreak.

Bilbo lowered his hand, which had warmed in the rays of sunlight. From his bedroom window, he watched clouds lazily cross the cerulean sky. He drew in a deep breath, and then with an exhale, climbed out of bed and started his day.

Summer had come on the heels of a rainy spring and a harsh winter. The warm air and golden sun were a welcomed sight after weeks of gray clouds and blistering winds. The auspicious weather couldn’t have come soon enough, as the larder was terrifyingly close to empty.

Today is perfect day for the market, Bilbo decided. He didn’t make ventures into town often; he rarely went anywhere, nowadays. Like a bed of embers ready to go out, Bilbo had let the days slip through his fingers, but adventure hold of him, and the dying coals ignited until flames burned through his veins and invaded sinew. Perhaps not as strong as it had been the day Bilbo ran out his front door after thirteen dwarves--that Tookish part of him had long since settled--but it was definitely an ache that Bilbo felt in his marrow.  
Yes, today was an excellent day to go out.

He put on his best trousers and his finest jacket—his green one, with the golden brocade lapels and brass acorn buttons—and, after a breakfast of eggs and potatoes, headed out.  
Hobbiton buzzed excitedly, a hive of life as everyone picked themselves out of their hobbit holes and headed outside into the sun. A gentle breeze carried the sweetness of ripe berries and flowers. Bilbo closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could taste the tartness of currants on his tongue.  
Summer always lifted his spirits. Fresh air and sunshine were good for the soul.

It seemed every hobbit in Hobbiton—maybe even the Shire—shared his thoughts. The market was filled to the brim. The usual chatter had a few additional voices that Bilbo didn’t recognize. Traveling merchants had come to peddle their wares and take part in the early summer harvest.

Bilbo made his way to each stall, deciding that he would enjoy the trip and take his time. There was no need to rush home.

He began at the Proudfoot’s stall, where they sold some of the vegetables from their gardens. They had an excellent selection of potatoes, and Bilbo could never turn his nose at a potato. He bought enough to refill the barrel in his larder and had them sent up to Bag End.

“Lively today,” Bilbo commented to Bodo.

Bodo withdrew his pipe from his mouth and nodded. “Aye, but it’s to be expected with the first real decent day we’ve had.”

Bodo bit back down on his pipe and puffed thoughtfully. Bilbo got the sense he didn’t want to talk. Not many people did anymore. His status as a proper hobbit had blown out Bag End with him, when he had raced out his front door and straight into an adventure .

Bilbo smiled to himself. He could still recall the very second he realised he had been ready for an adventure; his chest burst with happiness and his head had spun, as if he couldn’t get enough oxygen in his lungs. Even after all the pain, hard grounds he slept on, and lost handkerchiefs, he wouldn’t change a thing.

“Master Baggins?” Bodo asked.

Bilbo blinked and glanced over to the stout hobbit, laughing shakily before moved on. He stopped to look at some spices men from the south had brought. Bilbo enjoyed trying new things with his cooking--especially after the muck he suffered through on the trek to Erebor--so he bought a couple that made his tongue tingle, and then drifted over to a stall where a pair of tinker dwarves sold toys.

Bilbo admired the intricate designs and pleats that had been braided throughout the dwarves’ beards. He understood the time and care it took to braid, and after days of watching thirteen dwarves fuss over their hair like a group of young hobbit lasses, Bilbo knew how important a dwarf’s beard was.

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo greeted.

The red haired dwarf—who reminded him of proud Gloin—nodded to Bilbo. “Morning, Master Hobbit.”

“These are exquisite toys,” Bilbo said and selected the one closest to him.

The craftsmanship in the tiny tinkerbox was beyond amazing. Colored glass had been shaped into geometric designs on all four sides of the palm-sized silver box. A rose bloomed on the lid, the metal petals tempered and treated so that when the light hit, color burst from the flower.

When Bilbo opened the box, music began to play. Bilbo closed his eyes and listened, but didn’t know the song. Perhaps it was a dwarven lullaby.

Longing swelled inside Bilbo. He wanted to see Erebor again, if only to glimpse at the Lonely Mountain one last time. Bilbo knew he was welcomed--Dain had made that clear before he departed with Gandalf and Beorn--but no matter how badly Bilbo wished to see the majestic mountain kingdom, he couldn’t bear Thorin’s absence.

Bilbo choked back a sob and snapped the music box shut. He set the toy down, bid goodbye, and hurried on to the next stall. He looked, he haggled, he purchased and arranged for goods to be delivered. He did everything he could not to think about Thorin and Erebor, because if he stopped for a single moment, his heart would break and the day would be ruined.

Bilbo made his way to the fishmonger. The stall was set in the rear of the market and had an awning, which shaded the baskets of trout and snappers and fat catfish. The pungent odor clogged Bilbo’s senses.

“Good afternoon,” Bilbo greeted, his gaze trained on a rather succulent catfish.

“Good afternoon.” The voice was deep and sultry, and each note resonated in Bilbo, reminding him of Thorin.

In fact, it sounded just like Thorin.

Only, that was impossible. Thorin had died; his body had been lost in the Battle of Five Armies. No one had been able to find him, but then again, there had been many soldiers that had gone unrecovered. The numbers had been despairingly high. It was fortunate that they managed to uncover Fili and Kili.

Even without his body, Thorin had been given a proper king’s burial. He had been pronounced gone. If he had still been alive, surely he would have come to claim his rightful throne.

Bilbo had clung to that hope for the first few days, ardently believing that Thorin was still out there, among the uncounted.

Thorin would return to him.

But Thorin didn’t, and Bilbo moved on.

Or he tried to move on. Perhaps today wasn’t the auspicious day he had thought it was. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed, because now he was hearing Thorin’s voice.

Bilbo kept his gaze trained on the fish, turning his thoughts to which he would like for dinner. “Lovely selection you have. I haven’t seen snapper in a long time.”

“Thank you, Master Hobbit,” the fishmonger said in his too-much-like-Thorin’s voice.

Bilbo bit his bottom lip and hazarded a glance at the fishmonger, looking at his hands. The fishmonger’s hands were dirty and calloused, but they were strong and looked capable of wielding powerful swords.

 _No, it’s nothing._ Bilbo wouldn’t do this to himself. Over the years, Bilbo had seen Thorin’s face plenty of times in a crowd. His pulse fluttered, reigniting that hope that Thorin could return to him.

“Where are you from? I’ve never seen you in Hobbiton,” Bilbo queried.

“The west,” The fishmonger answered in a low gravelly timber. 

Bilbo sucked in a breath and looked higher, to a neatly kept black beard streaked with gray and a single braid draped over his left shoulder. The bead binding the pleat was silver and carved with dwarvish runes.

 _Impossible. It can’t be--but…_ Bilbo eased his gaze higher, to sensuous lips that were capable of both commanding an army and kissing the breath out of Bilbo.  
Bilbo looked up, meeting piercing blue eyes, and his heart stopped.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered.

It was Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror. It was the King Under the Mountain, in the living flesh.

His black beard had grown and had a single braid, which matched the two braids framing his face. There was more silver shooting through his hair, and there were more wrinkles around his eyes then Bilbo remembered, but it was his Thorin.

“Halfling,” Thorin said fondly.

“I-I…how…h-how—but…” Bilbo closed his mouth. Everything seemed to stop. The world faded, until all that existed was him and Thorin. Two years of suffering. Two years of mourning. Two years of endless agony and misery. And here the majestic king stood, selling fish as if it were perfectly normal.

A rapid succession of emotions exploded in Bilbo.

Joy.

Sadness.

Longing.

Disbelief.

They all bled together, swirling and mixing until finally all that was left was anger.

“You stupid dwarf!” Bilbo shouted and did what any sensible hobbit would do. He punched Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, rightful King Under the Mountain, square in his big stupid nose.

Thorin howled in pain and brought his hand to his face. Blood gushed between his fingers. Bilbo spun sharply on his and stormed off, refusing to feel remorseful.

“Serves you right!” Bilbo snapped over his shoulder. He could feel the entire marketplace watching him. No doubt all of Hobbiton would hear about how he assaulted the fishmonger. _Ha!_

“Wilwo, wait!” Thorin called.

But Bilbo didn’t wait.

He marched out of the market and up the road. A breeze cooled his cheeks. He sucked in a sharp breath, staving off a frustrated sob. Each step brought him further from anger and closer to despair. His heart was heavy, as if rocks had been stacked on top of it. A deep, bone penetrating ache pulsed through him.  
Thorin was alive.

For two years he had suffered.

And Thorin was alive.

Bilbo wouldn’t cry. He refused to shed anymore tears for the dwarf. No, he wouldn’t breakdown.

“Bilwo!” Thorin shouted, a bit more clearly. “Wait!”

Against his better judgment, Bilbo did stop. He turned sharply on his heels and glared up at Thorin. Bilbo pointed a finger at Thorin, stopping the dwarf in his tracks, and snapped, “No, you wait!”

Blood poured from Thorin’s nose and into his beard. Every fiber of Bilbo’s body compelled him to take the dwarf into his arms, to hold him and never let go.

But Bilbo resisted. His body tensed at the restraint it took. He held onto the frustration and grief, and used it to feed the fire. “You are _dead_. I watched them _bury_ you. I will not stand here and have you tell me you’ve been alive this entire time, for two years. No, I refuse, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. I refuse. So you can just go back to whatever grave you crawled out of.”

“Bilbo, I can explain—”

“—No you can’t!” Bilbo yelled. Emotions he had buried sifted to the surface. He couldn’t pretend they weren’t there anymore. All of the pain, all of hurt, rose inside him. It was a bitter taste in the back of his throat, souring the sweetness of the air. “You can’t give me any reason that can make it okay for what you did. You let me suffer for two years. I lost two years with you. For what?”

Thorin opened his mouth. Bilbo held his hand up. “No, just no.”

Bilbo turned back around and continued his march back to Bag End. Several heads popped up from behind fences to watch him. Any sense of respectability and decency he had regained was lost.

Well, bugger them.

“Let me explain, Halfling,” Thorin demanded.

Bilbo huffed. “Explain what? Why you’re a troll’s arse? No, I don’t need an explanation for that, thank you very much.”

Thorin followed him. Bilbo stomped up to his lovely green door, which still had the rune carved into it, and stormed into the house.

Bilbo paused and turned around. Thorin had stopped at the threshold, waiting. Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath. Blood dripped from Thorin’s nose. Thorin looked lost, and it struck a chord inside Bilbo. The same sadness had filled Thorin’s eyes when he couldn’t find the Arkenstone, and once again, Bilbo was the source of that sorrow.  
Damn this dwarf.

Bilbo blew out a sigh. “Come in. I’ll patch up your nose.”

Thorin removed his boots and followed Bilbo into the kitchen. As Thorin took a seat at the table, Bilbo scurried about, filling a bowl with water and grabbing a flannel.

“Tilt your head forward,” Bilbo ordered. “Apply pressure.”

“I know what to do,” Thorin grumbled. He tipped his head forward and pinched his nose.

Bilbo rolled his eyes and dragged a chair over. He set the bowl down and took a seat.

“This is your fault, you know that right?” Bilbo said and dipped the cloth in the bowl and began to dab at Thorin’s beard. “You deserved that punch.”

“I know.” Thorin scowled at him. He reminded Bilbo of a petulant child being scolded.

Bilbo’s hand stilled, the cloth pressed to the side of Thorin’s soft mouth. Bilbo worried his bottom lip. He had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of Thorin walking through his front door. Now that he was here, sitting at his dining table, Bilbo didn’t know what to do.

Putting on the kettle sounded good.

“Your face is a mess,” Bilbo mused and returned to cleaning the blood.

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

Bilbo sniffed and tilted his nose up. “Yes, well like I said, you deserved it. There’s no sense crying over spilt milk now.”

Thorin cast him an unamused glare. Bilbo plopped the washcloth in the water and rose to his feet. “How about a cuppa?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He refused to look at Thorin as he busied himself with preparing the kettle, but Bilbo could feel him sitting there. His presence filled the room.  
Bilbo didn’t sit back down until he had two cups of tea and a plate of honey cakes. He set the refreshments on the table and turned his focus on Thorin.

Gingerly he removed Thorin’s hand and inspected his nose. The bleeding had stopped and begun to dry. Swelling had begun to set in along the bridge of Thorin’s nose. Bilbo cleaned the dried blood carefully.

Thorin reached up and touched Bilbo’s hand, stilling his trembling fingers. Bilbo glanced down. His breath hitched.

“I wanted to find you,” Thorin began, but Bilbo shook his head and turned away.

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t.” Bilbo straightened his shoulders. _No tears, Bilbo Baggins. You will not cry._ “I think it would be best if you left.”

“Bilbo…”

“Now, please.” Bilbo clenched his hands against his thighs. Thorin appraised him for a long while, and Bilbo was afraid his resolve would break and he’d crumble in front of the former king. But before that could happen, Thorin stood and left the kitchen. Bilbo stiffened, his breath hitched in his throat. A few moments later Bilbo heard the front door open and close, and he collapsed in his chair.

Bilbo stared at the second cup of tea he had fixed for Thorin. Wisps of steam rose.

Bilbo pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Two years, Bilbo had waited for a miracle. Now Yavanna had given him one, and Bilbo had no idea what he was to do.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are discussed and remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Dhampir72 for betaing this.

Bilbo didn’t know what to do about Thorin, and the stubborn dwarf gave Bilbo no time to sort through his emotions. Two days after Bilbo found Thorin at the market, the presents began arriving. Every day for seven days, Bilbo discovered present after present on his door: fish wrapped in brown paper and string, fresh vegetables and fruits, and a bouquet of purple heather. Thorin even left the music box Bilbo had looked at.

Bilbo appreciated the gesture, but the attention only confused him further. How was he to figure out his feelings when Thorin was so determined to court him? Bilbo expected nothing else, though, from the former King Under the Mountain.

Nonetheless, Bilbo had had enough, and he decided to put a stop to the nonsense. Gifts wouldn’t make him come around any sooner. He needed to think. Thorin had been dead, and now he wasn’t. Simply accepting that wasn’t plausible. Was Bilbo happy? Yes. Was he hurt? Yes. Was he angry? Oh, he most certainly was.

So until he had sifted through his convoluted emotions, he needed space.

He had figured out that the gifts were delivered in the morning, when the sky was still a dove gray. So on the eighth day, he waited by the front door. When he heard a rustling on the other side, he jerked open the door and shouted, “Stop it!”

Thorin froze, crouched on his steps. A nasty bruise had formed over the bridge of his nose, the colouration akin to that of an overripe banana. Thorin held a bolt of elegantly embroidered fabric, which he set down as he stood. “Master Hobbit,” he greeted stiffly.

“Don’t you Master Hobbit me, Thorin Oakenshield. What in the entire Shire are you doing?” Bilbo demanded, setting his hands on his hips.

If Bilbo didn’t know better, he would have said Thorin flushed. But then Thorin straightened to his full height and his blue eyes flashed like lightning striking the ocean, and he was kingly again.

“Courting,” he stated.

Bilbo’s breath hitched. He blinked up at Thorin, unsure if he had heard the dwarf correctly.

“Come again?”

Bilbo told his heart to slow down, but it continued to beat rapidly.

“I’m courting you,” Thorin repeated, and while he said it as if he were addressing a battle plan, there was a slight wariness to Thorin’s gaze. He was scared, Bilbo realized.

_It’s like we’re back at the beginning._

Thorin had made awkward attempts on the journey. After the Carrock, there had been whispered words, plucked flowers, and shiny stones discovered amongst clusters of clover. But romance couldn’t exist on the battlefield, so the feeble attempts were often ruined by a horde of Orcs or another Company member stumbling upon them.

Bilbo had never minded; he didn’t need to be courted, he already knew he wanted to remain with Thorin. For awhile he had had the king, and Bilbo had never been happier. But like all good things, their time ended and their spring had turned to winter.

Now Thorin was back, and it seemed he was ready to pick up where he left off. As if Bilbo had waited all this time for him.

_Well, no sir._ Bilbo would not put up with that assumption. If Thorin wanted to take two years to come around, that was fine by Bilbo. But he would not give Thorin the satisfaction of having him back so easily.

“Who says I’m free to court?” Bilbo scowled up at the insufferable dwarf. “What if I have another?”

Thorin took a step back.

“Do you?” he choked, looking a bit lost.

Bilbo flushed. No, he didn’t. Thorin was his only one, and always would be. But he wouldn’t let Thorin know that. It would go straight to his big fat head.

“I do,” Bilbo lied. “She--”

“What is her name?” Bilbo tried to ignore the way Thorin’s looked as if Bilbo had taken his heart and crumbled it in his hands.

“Her name? Oh, w-well…it’s…” Bilbo racked his brain, but couldn’t think of a single name.

Bilbo blew out a long sigh. Why was he lying? It did no good. Lies were what nearly destroyed him and Thorin. It was his lie about the Arkenstone that had made their last parting one filled with hatred and regret.

_No more._

“There is no other,” Bilbo admitted, dropping his hands from his hips. “There never could be.”

“Truly?” Thorin took a step forward, gathering Bilbo’s hands into his calloused ones.

Bilbo smiled and his heart skipped another beat when Thorin’s hardened expression softened and a grin burst across his lips. _You silly dwarf._

“Truly,” Bilbo murmured. “How could anyone else compare to the majestic King Under the Mountain?”

Thorin’s smile fell into a puzzled frown. “King Under the Mountain? Who is that?”

He drew his hands away from Bilbo. It was like someone had tipped a bucket of cold water over Bilbo’s head. He dropped his hands to his sides and stared wide eyed up at Thorin.

Every wall Thorin possessed snapped back up. Bilbo could see his eyes closing off, refusing to let the light in. “So there _is_ another?”

“What are you talking about Thorin? I’m talking about you,” Bilbo said, exasperated. “Have you gone daft?”

“Then who is this King Under the Mountain? I will not be toyed with, halfling.” There was a slight growl to his words. Bilbo was reminded of a surly black bear,, even more so when Thorin glared down his sharp nose at Bilbo. “So speak the truth, who is this King Under the Mountain?”

“Tell me you’re joking,” Bilbo all but pleaded. When Thorin neither cracked a smile nor laughed, Bilbo grabbed a hold of the door knob for support. “You don’t jest…oh dear me, oh dear, dear me.”

He stared at the doorstep, hoping to find an answer in between the cracks of cobblestone, but there was only a bolt of green fabric neglected at his feet. Bilbo drew in an unsteady breath and let it out shakily.

“Sweet Eru…Thorin, _you_ are the King Under the Mountain. Or you were.” Bilbo met Thorin’s steely gaze, refusing to flinch under the scrutinizing stare.

Thorin blinked slowly, but no realization dawned on him. “Are you mad? I’m no King…I’m…”

He trailed off. Bilbo leaned forward, clutching the door handle with one hand. He waited for Thorin to finish, but Thorin looked away with an aggravated huff.

Bilbo sighed once more and stepped out of the doorway, back into his hobbit hole. “Perhaps it’s best that you come in. I think we could both use a cuppa.”

Thorin nodded curtly. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

Bilbo closed the door behind Thorin. The last thing he needed was someone coming by and seeing a dwarf in his house—especially Lobelia. Bilbo scrunched his nose up at the thought of his nosey cousin.

“Have a seat,” Bilbo said and gestured towards the table in the kitchen.

He hurried about preparing the kettle, doing everything he could to keep his hands busy and his mind focused. There was a sense of déjà vu as he set out a plate of butterscotch scones, a bowl of thick clotted cream, and strawberry preserves.

Thorin sat in the seat he had taken residency in the last time he was in Bilbo’s home. At least this time, there wasn’t any blood to mop up.

Bilbo set down two saucers and cups, the china jingling in his hands. Thorin slid his hand over Bilbo’s, and Bilbo froze. He glanced over to Thorin, who watched him somberly.

They were Thorin’s eyes—the same midnight blue Bilbo loved so much—but Bilbo suddenly realized it _wasn’t_ Thorin. There was something missing, a light that had once existed but now was extinguished. Bilbo hadn’t noticed before, too overcome by his own emotions and the sudden turn of events.

How had he missed it?

Bilbo wanted to sob. Fate could be so cruel. He had Thorin back, but it was only a shade of the dwarf he loved.

The kettle began to whistle. Bilbo pulled away to finish preparing the tea. He brought a pot over and set it down between the cups. Bilbo took a seat beside Thorin and began to cut a scone for the dwarf, slathering it with clotted cream and preserves—just as Thorin liked it.

He set the scone on Thorin’s plate and the act was so domestic, so natural, that Bilbo shuddered and whimpered. He dropped the knife and clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the cry that wanted to escape.

Thorin reached for him and Bilbo drew back, shaking his head. Thorin winced and asked, “What is wrong, little rabbit?”

_Little rabbit._ Bilbo could have laughed. He squeezed his eyes shut. The name had been given to him after Beorn had decided he resembled one of the furry little creatures. After they had left the wholesome cottage, Thorin had taken to calling Bilbo his little rabbit. Bilbo suspected it was partially out of jealousy; Thorin had glared at Beorn distrustfully for most of their stay.

Bilbo concentrated on steadying his breathing. He blinked away the tears that formed in his eyes and when he trusted he wouldn’t fall to pieces, he lowered his hand and said, “Nothing a little tea won’t fix.”

Thorin frowned. “I’ve upset you. That wasn’t my intent.”

Bilbo gave him a watery smile. “I know it wasn’t, and that only makes it worse.”

Thorin looked down at his scone. Bilbo often wondered what Thorin was like when he was younger; if he always looked as if all of Middle-Earth rested upon his shoulders. Bilbo couldn’t recall a time when Thorin hadn’t watched the world through guarded eyes. Even now, with no battle looming in the future or kingdom to reclaim, he seemed to carry a weight on his back.

Bilbo poured Thorin some tea first, then himself. It was a rooibos blend--one of the gifts from Thorin--and smelled heavenly. The cup warmed Bilbo’s hands as he wrapped his fingers around it and briefly glanced at his reflection in the reddish tea.

“So,” Bilbo began, a bit unsteadily, “why don’t we start from the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?” Thorin asked, obviously jarred from his own thoughts.

Bilbo blew the steam from his tea and took a sip, savoring the full-bodied flavor. He set the tea down and prepared himself a scone, with less clotted cream and more berries. “Well, it seems to me, that it would be the beginning of what you remember. So, go back two years. What is the first thing you recall?”

The act of remembering was painful. Dredging up old memories, ones long buried and forgotten, was like digging your own grave. It was dreadful, each shovelful of dirt bringing you one step closer to an end you weren’t prepared for.

Every time Bilbo thought back on his times with Thorin—no matter how cheerful—it always felt like he was digging a little deeper.

Thorin pinched his brows together and a shadowed darkened his handsome visage. Bilbo brushed some ringlets from his eyes and reached out to lay a hand over Thorin’s. “Take your time.”

Thorin remained quiet. Bilbo didn't press him to speak. He withdrew his hand and busied himself with nibbling on his scone. The food helped settled his stomach, which had begun to toss with nausea. Time stretched between them, each second defined by the loud beating of Bilbo's heart. He was halfway through his scone when Thorin shifted in his chair and started to speak.

"Most of my memories are blurry," he said with a note of contempt. Bilbo smiled privately--leave it to Thorin to be so put off by the inconvenience of amnesia.

_Amnesia._ The word was jarring and left an ashy taste in Bilbo's mouth.

"Well, what do you remember?"

Thorin picked up his teacup and stared pensively down at it. The silence lapsed back over, a loud quiet that echoed between Bilbo's ears. Hobbits were known for their patience, but Bilbo had to admit, even his was being tested.

"I guess, as you said, I should start from the beginning." Thorin sighed through his nose. He set the cup down and turned his attention on Bilbo. "I woke at night in a pile of bodies, covered in gore and muck. I don't know how I got there. I still don't know what happened, or why the land was battle torn."

Thorin’s words turned Bilbo’s blood into frost, until it felt as if a winter storm blew through him.

When Thorin's gaze grew unfocused, Bilbo set his hand over Thorin's and squeezed. Thorin shook his head. Unable to help himself, Bilbo tucked a strand of hair behind Thorin’s ear. He briefly threaded his fingers through the black and silver locks.

"That is when everything falls to pieces," Thorin admitted. "For the longest time, I knew nothing but fear. I could not even tell you my name, if you had asked me."

A pang of regret shot through Bilbo. Perhaps punching Thorin had been a bit of an overreaction. The bruising around the bridge of Thorin's nose made Bilbo want to kiss the damaged area, but decided against it. He was still sorting through his own feelings.

"They never found you," Bilbo said. The bit of scone he had eaten turned to lead in his stomach. Thorin had been left out in the battlefield, among the countless bodies.

Bilbo shuddered at the thought of being trapped under a corpse. It had been bad enough for him to wake up amongst the fallen, disoriented from the blow to his head. Luckily he had been wearing a helmet to keep his brain intact, but it seemed Thorin hadn't been so lucky.

“They?" Thorin asked.

"The Company," Bilbo answered. His spirits sunk further when no recollection flickered across Thorin's eyes. _He doesn't recall The Company._ "Dwalin? Balin? Oin?"

No name triggered a response. Bilbo took a sip of tea, gesturing for Thorin to continue.

"After I woke, I saw no others. There was campfire in the distance, but something inside compelled me to flee the light, as if the flames were mere illusions or tricks."

Bilbo frowned. Why would Thorin run away from the campfire? Surely he would have seen that there were others like him and felt some notion of recognition.

_He had been so close._ It was like someone had punched him in the gut. He clamped a hand over his mouth again, this time unable to halt the desolate moan that escaped and broke into a strangled sob.

Thorin took him by the shoulders and drew him into an embrace. Bilbo fell into Thorin's arms, clutching at his blue cotton tunic. A shudder shook Bilbo. He had dreamed of the moment he could return to Thorin’s embrace, to feel the dwarf’s warmth once more. His memories had only been shoddy impressions of what it truly meant to be held by Thorin.

Bilbo closed his eyes and inhaled. There was a moment when his senses swam, and he didn’t know what was real or what was dream. Thorin tightened his arms and it was like Bilbo had _finally_ come home. Thorin’s earthy musk invaded Bilbo’s thoughts, filling his sinuses, until all Bilbo could smell was rock and fire.

Everything compressed down on Bilbo. Thorin had been so close, but so far. The suffering that was supposed to be over continued on.

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and cried into Thorin's shoulder, letting every regret and ache escape with his salty tears. Thorin didn’t say anything as he held Bilbo and rubbed circles on his back, letting the hobbit cry himself out.

When Bilbo’s sobs turned into hiccups, he drew away from Thorin. There was a wet spot on Thorin's shirt from where Bilbo had his face hidden. He scrubbed at his eyes with trembling fingers and said in a watery voice, "S-sorry, I don't know what... it's just... well, sorry."

"Peace, halfling. My shoulder is always here, should you ever need it."

Bilbo smiled, but he knew it didn't reach his eyes. Bilbo wiped the last of the tears away and poured some more tea into his cup. "You were saying?"

"For those first few days, I can't recount my steps. Days and nights passed in a haze," Thorin said. He paused to drink his tea, his lips quirking briefly in a smile before he sobered and continued. "To sum up the last two years, I spent most of it drifting. Taking work where I could. I had no direction and no purpose. I knew not who I was nor where I belonged."

"If you remembered nothing--and still don't remember anything--then how is it you came to Hobbiton? How do you remember me?"

Thorin looked down at the cup in his hand. "A little over six months ago, I was working for a blacksmith in a village. I don't know what triggered it, but as I leaned over the forge, I was struck--as if by stone--and I knew in that moment that my name was Thorin Oakenshield."

"Did you remember anything else? Your lineage? Your family? Your history?"

Thorin shook his head. "I know the name, but I do not know what it comes with. I know not of who Thorin Oakenshield is. It belongs to me, but there are times of the day it feels like a mantle I can as easily remove as I can wear it."

Thorin cocked his head to the side and Bilbo's fingers itched to brush strands of hair from his face again. "At the market, you had claimed me Son of Thrain, Son of Thror. I'll admit, I was a bit distracted by the throbbing of my nose...but, I take it that these are my kin?"

Bilbo bit his bottom lip. Thorin knew nothing of the line of Durin. At every challenge, Thorin had proclaimed his lineage, as if the names alone could thwart any enemy.

"Yes, they are." Bilbo held his breath, waiting for a glimmer of recognition, but there was nothing in Thorin’s expression.

"Only names now," Thorin said. He set his tea aside.

Bilbo thought to linger on it, to drive the memory of Thrain and Thror deep into Thorin's heart, but he didn't know what forcing Thorin to remember would do. "What of me? How did you come to the Shire?"

"It happened shortly after I retook my name. It was a brass button," Thorin said and looked at Bilbo's coat. "Much like that one. Your face appeared in my head and my heart grew light. I was... happy. Truly."

Warmth spread through Bilbo, chasing away the chill that had taken residence in his bones as they spoke.

"I held onto the vision of your face and the memory bloomed. My One. You are my One. I know this, without the slightest doubt. Your name is Bilbo Baggins, and you are a hobbit from the Shire."

"Yes," Bilbo breathed and gathered Thorin's hands in his. "How did we meet?"

Thorin furrowed his brow. "That... I do not know. The memory wilts. I know only those facts. So I set out to find you again, taking work along the way."

Bilbo pressed his forehead to their gathered hands. _So close._

"I wish I could remember," Thorin lamented. "To know how I found my One. Or even to know what I did to make you punch me."

Bilbo dropped his hands and looked up, flushed. "Yes, well... sorry about that. You caught me by surprise."

"I see that. I assumed I must have done something to cause you grief. Perhaps I abandoned you, left for some battle, and have left you alone all this time. I hadn't meant to... so I thought..."

"You would court me?" Bilbo supplied. Thorin nodded. Bilbo laughed, and his heart was buoyant. He cupped the back of Thorin's neck and drew the dwarf near, pressing a kiss to his crinkled brow. "My silly dwarf."

Bilbo resolved that he wouldn't allow Thorin to remain like this. Holes had been poked into the former king’s soul, and Bilbo would see them filled once more. Thorin deserved to know what he had done, the greatness he had achieved. He needed to remember The Company, his family, and Erebor. Bilbo would find a way to bring Thorin's memories back. If he could face Smaug, then surely he could do this.

 


End file.
